


heavy heart to be carried

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:47:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23483326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: Jaskier gestured wildly at his foot, “And how—pray tell—am I supposed to walk?”“You’re not,” he replied with a hint of amusement. Geralt leaned down and slipped an arm under his legs without warning. Jaskier clawed at the front of his armor, yelping—“Geralt!”—but it was too late; he stood back up with the bard in his arms.Geralt adjusted him in his arms, an arm under the crook of his knees and an arm under his back./When Jaskier hurts his ankle, things escalate in an unexpected way.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 684





	heavy heart to be carried

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: queermight / tumblr: korrmin

Geralt had always assumed Jaskier would be a lot _louder_ if one of the nasty beasts he fought actually got at him. But no, he was surprisingly quiet as Geralt lunged the tip of his sword through the heart of the beast. The monster fell with a loud _thump_ , and he pulled his sword out, swinging it once to rid the blade of some of the blood and guts before he sheathed it. He would need to clean it properly—but later.

He had more important things to tend to, like the bard currently leaning against a tree, clutching his leg.

Geralt turned and walked over, crouching in front of him.

Jaskier blinked at him—once, twice—before he said, “Geralt, I—I _can’t—_ I can’t look.”

He nodded, understanding perfectly well, and gently moved his hand away. It wasn’t a bad injury, not very deep at all. _That_ wasn’t the problem or what Geralt was worried about. He gently poked at Jaskier’s ankle, twisted oddly, and he gasped in pain.

“Hmm,” he said. “You twisted your ankle.”

Jaskier looked finally—first at the injury, letting out a breath of relief, and then his ankle. “Oh. Oh no.”

“You should heal without a problem if we can get you a healer,” he reassured him as he stood up.

Jaskier gestured wildly at his foot, “And _how_ —pray tell—am I supposed to walk?”

“You’re not,” he replied with a hint of amusement. Geralt leaned down and slipped an arm under his legs without warning. Jaskier clawed at the front of his armor, yelping—“ _Geralt!_ ”—but it was too late; he stood back up with the bard in his arms.

Geralt adjusted him in his arms, an arm under the crook of his knees and an arm under his back.

“You—you don’t have to do this.”

Geralt was surprised by the flush on Jaskier’s cheeks, reaching his ears.

“I do,” he said. “You can’t walk, Jaskier.”

Jaskier pouted, but didn’t reply. Pleased, Geralt led them away from the fallen body of the beast and back to their camp for the night. Roach was waiting for them, alert. She neighed as they approached, tilting her head curiously.

She always had been too smart; she could tell when something wasn’t right.

Geralt placed Jaskier—carefully—on the ground. Jaskier smiled slightly. He was a bad man, perhaps, for enjoying the attention. But the pain he could do without.

“I don’t have much to help with that,” he said, nodding at his ankle, “but we can at least disinfect the cut.”

Jaskier nodded and watched as Geralt walked over and pulled something out of his saddlebag, a small vial. He crouched down next to him and opened it. He gagged—the ointment smelled like _feet_. “What the fuck is that?”

“You don’t want to know,” he replied instantly. _Very_ comforting.

Jaskier expected to be given the vial, to apply the ointment himself, but then—Geralt rolled up his pants, revealing the injury fully, and dipped his own fingers in the ointment.

He opened his mouth, about to say something, but stopped himself. He wasn’t complaining, not at all.

Geralt smeared it on the injury and he winced, just slightly. “Sorry.”

“No,” he said. “It’s—thank you, Geralt. You didn’t have to do that.”

He finished and closed the vial, tossing it to the side. He looked at Jaskier almost sadly. “I did,” he said finally, eyes darting around like he was afraid to look at Jaskier for too long. “You were injured because of _me_ —”

“Okay,” Jaskier said, “Nope, none of _that_.”

“None of… _what?_ ” he asked with mild amusement.

Jaskier raised both eyebrows. “I am not in the mood for your—” he gestured vaguely “—guilt complex.”

Geralt laughed in disbelief. “I do _not_ have a—” Jaskier leveled him with an unimpressed look, and he paused abruptly. “Whatever.”

“So.” Jaskier said once Geralt had settled beside him, on his own bedroll, just a couple feet apart. “How are we going to get to town when I’m like _this?_ ”

Geralt tilted his head back and forth. “We’ll ride on Roach; shouldn’t jostle your ankle too much.”

“You know,” he said, turning to look at him with a smirk, “I am _tired_ of only being allowed on your horse when I’m in peril.”

Geralt smiled back, something unexpectedly soft about it. Jaskier startled, his heart skipping a beat. Sometimes, especially lately, Geralt looked at him like _that_. But just as quickly—“One day you’ll earn the right to ride her,” he said. “One day, far _, far_ from now.”

Jaskier wished he had a pillow to throw at him. He settled for leaning over and smacking him on the arm.

Geralt laughed, open and unabashed. He only ever laughed like that around him. Jaskier smiled, looking away before he did—or said—something he would regret.

*

Geralt picked him up in the morning and he did _not_ squeal, thank you very much. Geralt just lifted him so quickly, so easily like he weighed nothing.

“Do I weigh _anything_ to you?” he asked curiously, wrapping his arms around his neck as he carried him.

Geralt walked over to Roach and paused for a moment. “Hmm, no more than a small child might.”

“I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not,” he said. Geralt just smiled at him as he lifted him up on the back of Roach. He kept a hand on Jaskier’s thigh to steady him—which he pointedly did not think about—until he was settled and said, “Okay.”

Nodding, he pulled his hand away and mounted Roach after him. Jaskier always enjoyed _this_ part.

He slipped his arms around Geralt’s waist and held on as they took off toward the nearest town.

*

They stopped in front of the healer’s house—a tiny cottage with a garden—and Geralt jumped down first, landing on heavy feet. He reached up for Jaskier and pulled him down, adjusting him in his arms as he walked to the door.

Jaskier couldn’t help being a little _too_ honest, “I could get used to this,” he said, lightly stroking the back of Geralt’s neck with his fingertips.

Geralt looked at him oddly for a moment. Then he opened his mouth, “Jaskier—”

But they were interrupted by the door opening. The healer was a sorceress, like many, with a bored expression on her face. “Come in,” she said roughly as she turned away.

Jaskier tugged on Geralt’s hair, just enough to get him to look at him. “Geralt,” he said desperately. “What were you going to say?”

The tension in the air was thick. Geralt pressed his lips together. “Later.”

Jaskier frowned, stomach churning as they entered after the healer. She led them to a small room, barely big enough to be a closet. There was a small bed that took up most of it.

“It’s not twisted,” she said as soon as she had examined his ankle. “It’s broken.”

Jaskier leaned his head back. “Oh, wonderful. Just lovely, really.”

Geralt was by the bed, a hand on his shoulder. “You can fix it, though,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

This was nothing for a healer—a good one, at least. “Of course I can fix it,” she said sharply.

Jaskier watched as she rubbed some kind of minty liquid all over her hands. He didn’t know much about healing, especially magic healing, beyond his experience with Yennefer and—well, that hadn’t exactly left him with warm feelings toward it. She suddenly grabbed his ankle roughly. He startled and reached for Geralt. Geralt silently took his hand, holding it.

“This isn’t going to, uh—hurt, is it?”

“Like a bitch,” she answered without looking up.

Jaskier went to say something but then she was twisting his ankle with her hands, and the pain was almost blinding. He squeezed Geralt’s hand, _hard_ , and then the pain was over—just like that. He looked down at her, catching his breath.

“All done,” she said.

Geralt grunted, “Thank you,” and pulled some coins out of his pocket.

She accepted them with a flourish and walked to the door. “Five minutes, not a second longer.”

Then—they were alone. Jaskier sat up and scooted over. Geralt smiled slightly as he sat down.

They were quiet for too long. Geralt finally reached out, brushing his fingers near the gash on Jaskier’s leg, still fresh but no longer bleeding. “We could also pay her to fix this,” he said, looking up. “If you want.”

Jaskier thought about it. “Nah,” he said eventually. “Scars are cool.”

His eyelashes fluttered as he looked up. Geralt smiled again, a little strained around the corners.

They were silent again, probably running out of time.

“I wasn’t kidding,” he said finally. Geralt looked at him, tilting his head curiously. “I’ll miss that.” Jaskier smiled, aiming for light and teasing and probably failing. “You carrying me like that. I always did wonder how a bride felt on her wedding night,” he added, eyes twinkling. “Now I guess I know.”

Geralt hummed, looking away and back again. He looked uncharacteristically timid. Jaskier wondered what he was going to say. “You don’t have to be injured,” he said slowly, “for us to do that—again.” Jaskier blinked at him, surprised, and obviously he took that the wrong way. “If you want. We don’t have to.”

Jaskier reached out, fast, and placed a hand on his arm. “I want to,” he said. “But—do _you?_ ”

“I—I was going to tell you something earlier, Jaskier,” he said, swallowing thickly. “I think—”

The door opened suddenly. “Okay,” the healer said; they hadn’t even gotten her name. “ _Out_.”

*

They walked out. Jaskier _definitely_ missed being carried, but he didn’t say anything.

“We should talk,” he said, surprising him. Geralt _hated_ talking. “But not here.” He mounted Roach and extended a hand. Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat.

“I thought I wasn’t allowed to ride on Roach unless I was in peril,” he reminded him softly.

Geralt smiled slightly. “Just do it.”

Jaskier took his hand and pulled himself up—and over—Roach, settling on her back. He wrapped his arms around Geralt, and they took off.

*

Back at camp, they both climbed off Roach and Geralt rolled out one of their bedrolls— _just_ one, he registered, wondering if that meant something.

Gods, he wanted it to mean something. But he couldn’t get his hopes up, not after years of pining peacefully. He had always been happy with just being Geralt’s friend; he didn’t _need_ more—he just _wanted_ more.

“Come,” Geralt said as he sat down. “Sit with me.”

Jaskier oddly felt like a child about to be scolded as he walked over and sat with him. His heart thumped, loud and fast, behind his ribs.

Their knees were touching and even through all their clothes he could feel the heat of his skin.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed by now,” he said finally, “but being honest… isn’t _easy_ for me.”

Jaskier smiled a little. “No way. Really?”

Geralt ignored him. Fair enough. “Being open has always gotten me hurt in the past,” he continued, looking up at the sky. He looked— _beautiful_. Jaskier wondered how anyone could _ever_ view him as a monster.

He reached out and placed a hand on his leg, a silent comfort.

Geralt smiled at the sky. “I was taught, from a young age, that having feelings is a bad thing—that it gets you killed or hurt or both. Some people think we don’t have feelings at all, but that’s not right.” Jaskier squeezed his leg, his way of saying _I know that, you don’t have to tell me._ Geralt sighed and finally tore his eyes away from the sky, looking at Jaskier. “We have feelings—they might be muted, or more easily ignored, but they are there. We just ignore them, bury them as deep as we can because there’s always something more important to focus on.”

He nodded, unsure if he should speak or not. He ended up not saying anything and Geralt reached down, grabbing his hand from off his leg. His hand was warm and calloused. Jaskier squeezed slightly.

“But I think all of that is a load of crap,” he said, way too seriously, and Jaskier cracked a smile. “Life is fucking hard enough as it is—I’m tired of making it harder for myself by ignoring everything I feel.”

Jaskier nodded in what he hoped was an encouraging way. He still didn’t know what the fuck was going on, but he would support Geralt in any and everything.

He knew what he _wanted_ to be going on, of course, but he still wasn’t hoping for anything.

Geralt looked confident and fearful all at once, “I’m going to be honest, now, Jaskier, even if it’s not for the better.”

Jaskier was honestly kind of nervous now but the squeeze of Geralt’s hand calmed him. “Okay.”

“I do not view you as just a friend,” he started, eyes flickering to his mouth, “or a travel companion or any of that.” Jaskier’s stomach felt like there were a dozen butterflies living in there. He didn’t say anything, just nodded dumbly as he continued, “I haven’t for a while now, honestly, but like I said, I thought it’d be better—for both of us—if I just ignored it.”

Jaskier nodded again, squeezing Geralt’s hand back. Jaskier did not have small hands by far, but they _looked_ small compared to Geralt’s.

Geralt took a deep breath, squared his shoulders. He looked Jaskier in the eye. “I’ve had feelings for you—beyond that of friendship—for a long time, Jaskier.”

There was a sudden rushing in his ears. Because he’d heard him—he had—but he couldn’t believe it.

Jaskier let out an almost delirious laugh. Geralt looked rightfully concerned and scooted closer. “Are you okay?” he asked. He hesitated for a moment before he wrapped an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders. “I do not expect you to feel the same way,” he continued gruffly. “I just need you to know. It’s—important to me.”

Jaskier took a gulp of air and looked at Geralt—and was shocked, _again_ , by the nervous lines of Geralt’s face, lips pressed together tight.

He was being so impossibly _brave,_ like always. Jaskier swallowed around the lump in his throat.

“Do—do you know,” he started, reaching up slowly to gently touch the side of Geralt’s face, “how fucking brave you are?”

Geralt blinked at him, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. “What?”

“You’re always so brave,” he continued like he hadn’t even said anything, lightly stroking his thumb across his cheek, rough with stubble. “You rush into battle without a second thought, you save even the most ungrateful humans, you—you’re the bravest fucking person I have ever met, Geralt.”

Geralt stared at him with dark eyes, quiet. Jaskier smiled, moving his hand down to thumb at the corner of his mouth.

“You make _me_ want to be braver,” he said softly.

Geralt smiled, just barely—Jaskier could feel it under his thumb more than see it.

“Admittedly I had hoped when this happened it would be a little more romantic,” he continued, clearing his throat. “Not a result of my ankle breaking. That’s a bit much, but I’ve always been for the dramatics.”

Geralt let out a huff of laughter against his thumb, and Jaskier’s heart squeezed in his chest.

Without missing a beat, he lurched forward and kissed him. It was a bit—well, _uncomfortable_ , teeth clanking and his thumb in the way. But then he tilted his head better, dropped his hand, and Geralt reached up, grabbing the back of his neck to draw him closer—nearly into his lap—as he deepened the kiss.

He felt like he was on fire, every inch of him.

Jaskier straddled him, legs spread wide, and licked into his mouth. Geralt tasted sharp, probably a result of the elixirs he often drank, with a touch of sweetness.

Geralt pulled away first and perhaps he whined, though he would never admit it. Grinning, Geralt placed his hands on his sides. Jaskier suddenly wished they didn’t have so many _clothes_ on.

“Well,” he said.

Jaskier combed his fingers through Geralt’s hair, a bit tangled from a night of sleeping on it. “ _Well_ ,” he agreed because for once he didn’t need words. Neither of them did.

*

In the morning they were both regretting their decision to not wash off last night. Jaskier was sticky with—well, sweat among _other_ things.

Geralt sat up first, pushing hair out of his face. If it wasn’t tangled before, it was a mess now that would likely need hours of combing.

Thankfully Jaskier didn’t mind doing that at all.

There was also thankfully a stream not far from their camp. Jaskier sighed and stretched, arms in the air. He noticed Geralt watching him with dark eyes and he might’ve played it up a bit, reaching high, his body a taut line.

He reached out after a moment, smoothing a hand down the smooth expanse of Jaskier’s back.

Jaskier sighed, eyelashes fluttering. “We should probably wash off.”

“Hmm,” he said in agreement, though he made no move to get up.

Jaskier smiled, biting the inside of his cheek, and looked at him. “We both smell disgusting, Geralt,” he pointed out, an undeniable fact.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said with a sigh as he stood up. Jaskier went to stand up but Geralt ducked down, fast, before he could and scooped him up in his arms. Jaskier yelped as he slipped his arms around Geralt’s neck. Geralt grinned like a shark, way too pleased with himself. “You said you liked me carrying you,” he reminded him.

Jaskier wasn’t complaining—oh, not by far. He nodded, biting his bottom lip. “I do,” he agreed. “Just—don’t drop me, okay?”

Geralt grabbed their blanket, covering themselves with it as he stalked away from the camp toward the stream. They were likely alone, this deep in the woods, but better safe than sorry. He squeezed Jaskier, stroking his arm with his thumb.

“I would never let that happen,” he said, and Jaskier smiled, turning to bury his face against Geralt’s chest.


End file.
